


Afternoon Visit

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Language, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Rimming, Spit As Lube, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 11:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16639670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: He knows without asking what the fire in Sing’s gaze means; he knows that Sing yearns to shatter his composure.This is based on lovely SingYue fanart bybutleronduty. Thank you for allowing me to write this! Takes place five years after the events of Banana Fish, so rest assured that everyone is an adult.





	Afternoon Visit

“Did you remember to lock the door this time?”

Sing’s lips are close enough to his ear that he can feel the words on his skin and the warmth of the laugh that follows. Yut-Lung knows that the scowl on his face isn’t visible when their bodies are so close, but that doesn’t stop him from doing so. He resists the urge to thrust against Sing’s leg, his cock already hard and desperately seeking relief.

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Someone who was caught  _in flagrante delicto_ necking with the honored guest of the gala he planned.”

He feels teeth graze his neck, not enough to leave a mark but firm enough to pepper his skin with goosebumps and a shiver of pleasure. His mind fills in the details — memories of Sing with a well-tailored suit, challenging gaze, and a hungry mouth that had tasted nearly every inch of skin that time allowed. Though his back had been turned when the door opened, he knew immediately which guard had caught them by the vivid flush on his cheeks and careful way he avoided looking Yut-Lung in the eye.

“Point taken. And yes. It’s locked. Check for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“And miss a second of this? Not a chance.”

Sing’s hands leave a trail of fire along his skin — his wrists, his arms, and then they’re travelling lower. He feels a thumb trace small, careful lines near the junction of his blouse and pants, careful to avoid touching the skin beneath. The material is flimsy — more the suggestion of attire than anything functional — but all the same it feels like too much. 

Sing shifts, and when Yut-Lung opens his eyes he sees Sing peering at him between his legs; his hands have not moved, content to pluck whatever notes of pleasure they can without broaching further. He can’t meet Sing’s gaze, black eyes filled with a strange, patient kind of hunger. 

He knows what desire looks like; he was far younger than he likes to remember when he learned firsthand how to tell the difference in which way someone might like to see him fall apart. Some relished Yut-Lung’s agony, while others found unwanted pleasure more satisfying. Body language was malleable, but the eyes never lied; there was no way to hide dilated pupils and a predatory gleam. He knows without asking what the fire in Sing’s gaze means; he knows that Sing yearns to shatter his composure, and that whether or not he wants to, his body would probably glean some measure of pleasure from it.

The fact that Sing bothers asking at all is what unnerves him. It feels too intimate, knowing that the only thing between dignity and debauchery is his own complicity. Wearing a mask of unaffected eroticism or virginal distress is less terrifying than this — to give oneself over completely, to crack open one’s rib cage and expose the slimy, glistening viscera beneath. Sing wanted to embrace the raw, blood-coated creature nestled in his entrails.

“You don’t have to do this, Sing,” he whispers, suddenly feeling very small. 

“Neither do you. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. If you’re not sure because you’re scar—”

“Just get it over with!” 

His hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists; his attempts to pull down his pants are successful, but just barely, using his ankles to guide them the rest of the way off. He can’t stop shaking. Sing’s hands wrap around Yut-Lung’s, pinning them gently to either side of his waist; he would feel terrified if these hands weren’t Sing’s, and if his fingers weren’t rubbing small, reassuring circles against the back of his hand. Sing’s eyes still smolder, though tempered by heat more reminiscent of a hearth.

“I don’t want it unless you do. I take no pleasure in bedding someone who’s clearly unwilling, or thinks they’re doing me a favor by pretending to enjoy it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m well aware. But I want to. I  _want_ this to feel good for you. I  _want_ you to stop hiding from me.”

Sing closes his eyes for a moment, as though trying to think through the dull roar of delirium clouding his senses. The fact that Sing somehow still desires him at all tugs at him, a small tendril of delight amidst the miasma surrounding him.

“I know exactly who and what you are. You’re not a snake, and you’re not a whore. You’re not disgusting or vile or whatever you assume I’m thinking. You’ve known me my entire life. Since when have I  _ever_ been good at lying?”

Yut-Lung smiles in spite of himself, warmth blooming in his chest. The leaden heaviness crushing his ribs eases a little. He finds that he can breathe again, his hands more steady than they were.

“Never. It’d make my job easier if you were.”

“Well, Master Lee, my sincerest apologies for inconveniencing you. Surely there’s a way I could make up for it?”

The words are mocking but the tone is sincere; Sing’s eyes linger too long for Yut-Lung to misunderstand the actual question being asked. Yut-Lung takes a deep breath, knowing it’ll give him away instantly but finding his nerves too rattled to care. 

“I believe you were in the middle of doing so.”

Sing beams in reply; his smile is so achingly sincere and innocent that for a moment, Yut-Lung wonders if  _he_ was the one who misunderstood Sing. But suddenly Sing releases his grasp on Yut-Lung’s hands, gently maneuvering Yut-Lung such that he’s fully reclined on the sofa, Sing kneeling on the ground. Sing cradles his foot, lips hovering near his toes. Alarm bells ring in head, a bone-deep revulsion as he remembers a slippery tongue like worms crawling across his feet.

"What are you—?”

“I want this to feel good for you. Some people enjoy this. If you don’t, tell me.”

“But… isn’t that a little—?”

“Nothing about you is disgusting,” Sing replies, pressing his lips to Yut-Lung’s ankle. It’s chaste, but he trembles all the same; it’s impossible to pretend that it’s purely a physiological response. His head falls back; he feels strangely-lightheaded, as though the heat coiling within him has sapped his strength.

“No toes. Keep doing what you’re doing, though.”

Sing presses his lips to Yut-Lung’s ankle once more, grazing his skin for only a moment before finding more unexplored flesh to savor. Sing’s mouth is hot and desperate against his skin; Yut-Lung can feel Sing’s control eroding, his kisses becoming more open-mouthed and greedy as he ascends up his leg. He feels Sing’s breath against the tender space behind his knees and the delicate back of his thighs. He isn’t sure if the low, soft moans he hears are Sing’s or his own.

“Want me to keep going?”

“What does it look like?!” Yut-Lung’s voice is breathy and high-pitched and he hates sounding so exposed and weak, but Sing’s licking and sucking at his thighs and god, and he can feel his breath on his co—

Sing stops. Yut-Lung looks down. The knowing smirk on Sing’s face is infuriating, yet he can’t stop the surge of heat pooling in his stomach. 

“I won’t know unless you tell me. I’m supposed to be making up for making you work so hard, remember? I need to know if I’ve satisfied you.”

“ _Yes_ , Sing,” he pleads, and suddenly his breath is stolen from him as a warm, greedy tongue laps at his skin. 

Sing’s hands travel further in between his legs, and with a jolt Yut-Lung feels Sing’s rough, calloused hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him so slowly that it’s more of a question than anything else. Yut-Lung gasps, and Sing’s hand picks up its pace. He can’t help but thrust into his hand eagerly, thoughts reduced to a manic pleasure. There’s nothing graceful about this — his hair is a sweaty, tangled mess and he’s not even sure how he looks anymore, thrusting and panting like a wild animal, hands white-knuckled as they clench at the sheets. It’s strange to not be a voyeur to performative pleasure, too consumed with genuine desperation and lust to be anything but a participant.  

Sing’s hand twists around his cock with unnerving precision, as though he knew precisely how to wring pleasure from him; there’s less friction than before, a lewd, moist sound escaping with every stroke. Sing’s tongue and teeth travel lower, as though determined to leave nothing unmarred. He feels Sing suck gently at the skin just below his scrotum, licking the nebulous space where his legs curve into buttocks, sometimes further inward. Sing’s target is obvious, but he doesn’t broach further.

“I’d like to try something, if you don’t mind,” he says, his tongue creeping inwards. The sensation sends a shudder down Yut-Lung’s spine — though, he notes, the arcing saltation is hot and violent, undeniable pleasure.

He nod once, too tightly-wound to trust that his vocal cords will cooperate with him.

Sing continues his ministrations to his cock, controlled and almost eerily calm, but his eagerness is betrayed by the warm breath against oversensitive skin, Sing letting out a quiet moan of delight. He feels Sing’s tongue press lightly — almost too lightly to actually feel — against his entrance; he holds his breath, every nerve in his body suddenly incapable of registering anything except Sing’s tongue ( _his_ _tongue, his tongue, oh my God,_ ** _his tongue_** ) lapping at him.

“Isn’t that fil—?”

“No.”

He’s never heard Sing’s voice like this, a low growl warped by clear want; he doesn’t have to look to know that Sing is hard and likely straining against his trousers. He bites his lip, suddenly breathless.

Light, tentative flicks of his tongue gradually become bolder, territorial; Sing began to suck at him, lips and tongue and teeth determined to find any note of pleasure that could be strummed. Yut-Lung’s body is ablaze, torn between the familiar pleasure of a hand stroking his cock and the unfamiliar pleasure of being devoured in a way that he would normally have described as ‘perverse’. Perhaps it was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when it felt so goddamn good.

“See? Feels good, doesn’t it?” He can feel the vibration of Sing’s voice against his skin, his words slightly muffled as his tongue teases at intrusion. Yut-Lung’s cock is aching and leaking; at some point Sing removed his hand, and he knows that he’s not likely to last a second if he’s touched.

“Just — just fu — “

"It’s going to hurt if I do it now. Be patient.”

He wants it to hurt. He wants to feel the familiar burn and ache, to know that it’s Sing that’s stretching and filling him, that it’s Sing consuming him from the inside out. 

_I bet he’s huge._

The thought alone is nearly enough to send him over the edge, and before he can stop himself a needy whine escapes him. 

“Whatever you’re doing, do it quickly,” he says through gritted teeth, fisting the sheets and willing himself to think about anything other than Sing’s cock. It proves difficult when Sing’s tongue begins licking and fucking him, and impossible when he feels Sing cautiously insert a finger. Sing lets out a small, surprised laugh.

“Look at that — it went right in! You must really like this.”

“Shut up.”

“I bet you could take another. Wanna find out?”

“I said—”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Sing says, his voice dropping several octaves. It’s the imitation of a threat, all heat and no bite, and Yut-Lung can’t stop the goosebumps that break out over his skin. Sing runs a finger along his thigh, clearly noticing them and providing Yut-Lung no outlet for denial. Sing’s expression softens into a smile, though sharp with desire and playful malice.

“Let’s try this again. Would you like more?”

“… yes.”

Yut-Lung sighs under breath as he feels another digit enter him, flushing at how eagerly his body seems to swallow it up. Sing, mercifully, doesn’t remark on it, instead pumping his fingers in and out of him experimentally. Yut-Lung bucks his hips, legs spread wantonly and fingers curled in Sing’s hair. Words are pouring from his mouth faster than he can stop them, interrupted by a throaty groan each time Sing’s fingers sink deeper inside of him. He’s not even sure if he’s swearing in English or Cantonese, finding the difference meaningless when his entire body is singing with want. 

One of Sing’s fingers prods more than the other; Yut-Lung is about ask what's doing when he feels his stomach lurch as his body spasms with pleasure. Sing is gentle, devastatingly slow as he stretches and scissors his fingers carefully, but it does little to cool his lust; his mind flashes to trite images of a tea kettle whistling or a boiling pot overflowing, finding such descriptions lacking in trying to describe the heady pleasure suffocating him.

“Another?”

“Sing,  _please_ —”

Sing withdraws his fingers, every inch of lost contact compounding his desperate need to be filled again. Eyes like obsidian lock with his. Before he can ask why Sing looks so pleased with himself, Sing laps at his fingers —  _those fingers_ , Yut-Lung realizes with mingled disgust and desire — and sucks at them greedily. Sing doesn’t blink, and neither does he. 

Sing unbuckles his pants and shifts them down only as much as he needs to. Before he can stop himself, Sing roughly strokes himself and groans, biting his lip to stifle any further sounds.

_Oh my God. He_ **_is_ ** _huge._

Though outwardly calm, Sing’s hands shake, and his heavy breaths betray his excitement; Sing is just as wound up as he is. The thought sends a pulse of electricity straight to his cock.

“God, Yue, seeing you like this…”

Sing makes as if to close the distance between them, their faces inches apart and their legs flush against one another’s, and suddenly Yut-Lung feels claustrophobic. Sing’s tongue and fingers were just between his legs, but having to look Sing in the eye as they fuck feels far too invasive; it’s too reminiscent of people watching his face and drinking in his humiliation like nectar. Yut-Lung turns his head, and tries to warp his grimace into a smile. It doesn’t work. 

_Not my face, not while we do this. Please don’t ask to see my face._

Sing returns the smile, however, and sits up, patting the sofa and pulling gently at Yut-Lung’s hips as a cue for him to reposition himself onto his stomach. He obliges, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipate at this small bit of privacy. 

Sing spits into his hand and coats himself as thoroughly as he can, his expression heated but somehow apologetic. Yut-Lung can’t but stare over his shoulder; it’s a crude, vulgar thing, but something about Sing doing it feeds the desperation clawing at his insides. His thoughts melt and swirl like a saccharine fever dream, a choir reduced to shrieking in a needy falsetto.

_please please please please please_

He’s no longer certain if he’s merely thinking it or if he’s begun begging like some broken wind-up doll, not even sure if his frenetic lust is words at all, but then he feels the sofa dip and Sing’s weight on his back. He feels a firm pressure near his entrance and shudders when he’s filled with sweet, overpowering heat. 

“Fuck,” Sing breathes, his hand caressing Yut-Lung’s back in long, soothing strokes. Sing doesn’t move — a thoughtful gesture were it not for the deafening roar of his heartbeat and frantic breathing. He doesn’t want tenderness — he wants Sing hard and fast, in him and around him until he can't think of anything else. Yut-Lung cants his hips, begging for friction, gritting his teeth in sheer frustration.

“Ask nicely.”

“Jesus Christ, Sing,  _fuck me—”_

His words are cut short as Sing withdraws, agonizingly slow, and thrusts forward with a shattered moan. 

On top of him, caging him with arms clenched on either side of his waist, filling him with luscious, searing heat. Sing’s name falls from his lips as a paper-thin gasp. His hair is disheveled, skin flushed and unsightly, his clothes soiled by arousal and sweat; he feels less like a preening peacock and more like the carnal, needy thing curled within his entrails.

“I love seeing you like this,” Sing whispers in his ear, nibbling gently on his lobe. His breaths are harsh and labored, more strained with every rock of his hips. Yut-Lung can only moan in response, the feverish restlessness boiling in his veins dangerously close to a crescendo. Sing adjusts the angle, finding the same point of pleasure that had stolen his composure earlier. He cries out with every cruel thrust as Sing seeks that sweet spot relentlessly. 

“God, please—!“

“Gettin’ close?”

“Keep — right there —“

Sing’s hands wrap around Yut-Lung’s hips, using them as leverage as he buries himself inside Yut-Lung. The force of it is violent and jarring, painting both of their sighs with an edge of desperation.

“Come for me, Yue.”

Sing’s voice is soft and unbearably sweet near his ear, and Yut-Lung’s vision is dyed in blinding white. Sing’s hips jerk wildly, and he knows by the almost silent cry against his neck that Sing’s release follows shortly after.

Sing doesn’t ask Yut-Lung if he wants to be held, cleaned, or left alone; he suspects he might be the first person to consider him at all. He can tell by the way Yut-Lung curls in on himself that of all the things he’s been offered, a cocoon is not among them.

* * *

_Some things never change_ , Sing thinks. 

His phone pings with a text message later that day, after they both reluctantly untangled themselves from one another and cleaned up the evidence of their coupling.

The sofa’s upholstery is ruined. Sing receives an invoice for the dry cleaning bill.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is straight-up PWP, y'all, and I'm probably going to come back and fuss with it periodically, as I tend to do.
> 
> I've never written about rimming before. I'm still not quite sure I've portrayed it well, so... 
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, kudos and critiques are sincerely appreciated!


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